


Clair de Lune

by avadakatavra



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26714770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avadakatavra/pseuds/avadakatavra
Summary: As soon as our hands met, a small miracle revealed itself to me; I occupy space even beyond death. Our hands intertwined earnestly, and it almost makes me feel alive.Such phenomenon explores the limitless possibilities of human connection.
Kudos: 6





	Clair de Lune

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. I wrote this with the resolve that it won't see the light of day. I may or may not finish this, but I think I have given it enough love to let it go to waste. And so I share it with you.

Today, I am no longer alone.

I was sitting down the marble bench in the unkempt garden when the rustle of leaves can be heard from afar. I thought it was the wind stirring the path, until there were footsteps echoing from inside the mansion. A human probably unknown to me is here. This mansion has long been deserted by its past inhabitants. Unlike humans, I cannot leave here; I can only stay. Believe me, I tried. I am not human anymore but a spirit that is tied to this place. This is not the afterlife I envisioned, starting anew like a blank sheet of paper. I just know this is where I died.

There were people who looked around this old mansion for the past years. Perhaps they were hoping to find a new home. Many who were interested came and went, but there was this man who went back here more than a few times. He was even here last week. And last week, the windows that were once boarded up can now let the light in, the cobwebs in every nook and cranny were dusted away, and the mansion has awakened from its deep slumber. It was magical to watch it slowly return to its former glory. Maybe the garden, which is my favorite, would follow later.

I know the human after all. Of course, it is the man who kept coming back. He is dressed in warm colors; a black leather jacket, a pair of chunky maroon boots, and round, bronze specks. Contrary to his dark color choices he is still as radiant as he was the first time I saw him. He looks kind of weary as he slumped in the couch and heaved a sigh of relief. This is quite a secluded spot, and traveling here could be strenuous, but it is perfect for anyone who wants their peace and quiet. This is a place that would allow anyone to forget their troubles, and the world that brings those about. 

I went back to the garden, in the marble bench where I was earlier. The window of a lit bedroom is in my view. The night has come, and so the man rests. Soon enough the light goes out. There are no bright buildings that would steal the glow of the stars, so a galaxy of them adorns the sky.

I hope the man gets a good night’s sleep without any worries, for I am here to protect him from evils lurking in the shadows. Tonight, I am no longer alone. I do not know the man yet, but I am compelled to say that he feels less alone, too. Whatever made him choose this mansion, he chose well, for comfort can be found here. 

The next morning the man woke up early to paint. It wouldn’t take a genius to surmise that he is an artist, and that the paintings hung in most of the walls are made by him. He is brimming with talent and his paintings are a clear display of that, including those abstract pieces that are mere splats to common folk like me. Maybe with more discerning eyes, there are layers of complicated textures in them. 

The man placed his easel and canvass in front of my garden. Is it okay if I claim ownership over it? Besides, it is the only part of the mansion that is left untouched. It escapes me though why he would like to face a garden of decay. Will he paint it or is he inspired by it? Is there a switch that the garden has flicked in his head? There are no flowers in sight, just a field of unruly weeds and wilting plants. A fountain of a cherub holding a jar where water should be flowing is in the garden’s center, covered by moss and dirt. And then there is the marble bench which I frequent. This mess in its entirety is a sanctuary to me. There is a sense of pride in the thought that my garden is potentially the subject of an artist, especially an artist of his caliber, even in the state it’s in.

He picked up the paint brush stuck behind his ear and began with light strokes. I was frozen in the marble bench, partly afraid that he would sense me if I moved. I’m confident he couldn’t see me, like most humans, but the fear exists nonetheless. Watching him in his element made it easier to stay in place. He would look over occasionally, but it seems as though he is painting from memory with a single glance. The colors in his wooden palette are all carefully mixed by him, and I am in awe with the way he does this for it is done with apparent skill. Naturally, there are greens and blues. But there are also browns mixed with purples, combinations I never would have come up with. After what seemed to be at least three hours without stopping, he puts down his brush and stares at his creation with a satisfied nod. He finally stood up, stretched his arms and legs and arched his back after crouching for a while. He went to the kitchen and I took it as a cue to move from where I am, too. 

I walked over to his work filled with curiosity and overwhelming excitement. It was great to feel something after repetitions of the mundane. If I had a heart, it would be thumping against my chest loudly enough for the man to hear it. Once I laid eyes on his painting I recognized his style at once. His strokes are erratic, and yet the harmony of his shapes make a cohesive whole. He did paint my garden but something else took me completely by surprise. It is the marble bench and the figure sitting in it. The figure couldn’t have been anyone else but me. 

He painted my features closely enough, realistically enough for me to confirm that he could see me in this form. “Thank you for staying still.” I was caught in a daze that I didn't notice his presence behind me. I turned around to face him, and I am left to wonder about how beautiful a smile could be. The initial thought that emerged from the clouds swirling in my head is that I wish I could touch him. The man has kept a considerable distance between us. I wanted to get closer, but there is no way I could reach him, there is no way I could feel his warmth. “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he tries again when I didn't respond. Normally, the humans that I encounter would walk right past me. It's alright, for I'm used to being invisible. But of the numerous times a human realizes a spirit is within their midst, they do not acknowledge me in the same calm manner that this man has shown. "Are you really not scared of me?" I asked with genuine interest. He laughs softly, sipping from his cup of coffee as a smirk forms in the corner of his lips. “Far from it, really. Do you remember your name?”

My earliest memory traces back to rain pouring hard in my garden when the flowers still bloomed. There is no telling what part of the day it is. From then on, I let go of the concept of time to ease into the endless loop of my existence. All I could do was wander in the mansion and watch it fall apart. In the days, months or years that passed by, I have discovered bits and pieces of my identity etched all over this place. However, there was no urgency for me to collect these pieces together. Why would I keep searching for who I am when it no longer mattered? The answer still came, anyway. "I suppose I do remember. It's Moon Junhui." 

He nodded in the way he did after finishing his art, as if my name sought his approval. I'm not sure how much of the mansion has been emptied or cleaned of its filth, but there was a room upstairs with a portrait of a man who mirrors my reflection - dressed in a white suit, hair silver like armor, and lips red like cherries. Beneath the portrait is an inscription on a gold plate written in elegant script - Young master Moon Junhui. "I am Xu Minghao, or Hao, if you'd like. I hope you don't mind having me around, Moon Junhui." His extended hand is an open invitation for the skinship I've been yearning. Can I at least try and touch him? Maybe it's worth a shot.

As soon as our hands met, a small miracle revealed itself to me; I occupy space even beyond death. Our hands intertwined earnestly, and it almost makes me feel alive. Such phenomenon explores the limitless possibilities of human connection. Tomorrow, I may no longer be alone, too, and perhaps I won't be for the next days, months, or years. "Stay for as long as you want, Xu Minghao." I most certainly don't mind.

•••• 

I haven’t seen this much people in one place in a long while. They are dressed as if they are gathered for an art exhibit in a fancy museum. I didn’t expect Minghao to be such a spirited host, as he went around the crowd, occasionally pouring champagne on the empty glasses of his guests while they discuss his paintings. It is evident that Minghao is enjoying himself. Soft, classical piano music can be heard in the background, and it feels like a summer afternoon by the seaside in a quaint European town. As the sky gets darker, the crowd also begins to get thinner, until only a tall young man with piercing cat eyes is left to keep Minghao company. Minghao’s cheeks are already flushed a light pink. “Mingyu,” Minghao gushes to him, “stay for the rest of the night.”

They lounge in the sofa, their glasses still filled with red wine, as the man called Mingyu slowly closes the gap between them. The hours pass by with Minghao’s eyes becoming glassier as Mingyu observes him with amusement. It is so easy for Mingyu to make Minghao laugh. It felt wrong for me to watch them, but I stayed somewhere Minghao couldn’t see or feel me. Besides, with the way he looks at Mingyu, it does seem like Minghao care about little else. They are in their own little world. I was quite taken by the way they respond to each other’s touch - Mingyu’s finger tracing invisible lines on Minghao’s arms, with Minghao’s hands traveling to Mingyu’s lap.

As Minghao laughs again about something Mingyu said, Mingyu could no longer help himself. He pushes the strands of Minghao’s hair to the side so it doesn’t obscure his glassy eyes, and they share a quiet moment as quick as a heartbeat. Mingyu leans in and rests his lips on Minghao’s, as if asking permission, and Minghao kisses him back. They finally allow themselves to get lost in each other, to touch each other as if saying, let us not hold back anymore.

And this is when I walk towards my garden, with an uneasy feeling in my chest and a pang of yearning I couldn’t understand.


End file.
